 Chapter 5 The Pirate and Pauline A sort of false quiet, like the calm that broods between storms, kept all serene at the Marvin mansion for a week after the aeroplane catastrophe. Little had been seen of Harry, who was busy with directors' meetings and visits to the factories. Owen had read with alarm of rumours that someone had tampered with a wire of the wrecked biplane. But if the authorities were investigating, he saw no signs of it, and suspicion pointed no finger at him. What puzzled and worried Owen more than anything else was his own mind and behaviour. Having no belief in the supernatural, he could not account for the dream which had thrown him into a criminal partnership with Hicks. Hicks had blackmailed him in the past, and there was nobody he had feared and hated more than this vulgar and disreputable racetrack man. Yet Hicks had appeared to him in a dream, and Owen had promptly done his bidding, involving himself in what would probably turn out to be murder. The newspapers reported the French aviator as barely living from day to day. Owen suffered the torment of a lost soul, but at least he had no more dreams or spectral visitations. Hicks called him on the telephone once or twice, but the secretary refused to talk. Pauline too had a busy week. Besides her usual social activities, she rewrote and finished her new story. It seemed to her even better than the one in the Cosmopolitan magazine. This will surely be taken, Pauline thought, with a little sigh of regret, and that means the end of my year of adventures. She had determined on this course the night after the accident. It was after midnight, and Pauline was trying to marshal the exciting recollections of the day into the orderly mental procession that leads to sleep. Very faintly she heard what sounded like the music of a distant mandolin. Pauline knew it was Harry, went to the open window and looked down on the dark lawn. There he was playing with a bit of straw instead of a pick that his music might not disturb the sleepers in the house. Pauline wanted to throw her arms around him and promise not to cause any more worry. But she didn't, because she couldn't reach him from the window. After Harry had gone Pauline decided to finish her story, send it to a publisher, and let his decision be hers. If they accept it, you stay home and marry Harry. She told the pretty face under the filmy nightcap, which smiled at her from the mirror. But if they dare reject it, Harry will have to worry, dear boy, though he is. So Pauline lost no time in finishing and submitting her manuscript, and closing a special delivery stamp and request pleased to let her know at once. On Saturday Pauline received a bulky letter in the morning's mail. It was her neatly typed manuscript and a short letter declining her story. The editor thought it charming, showed wonderful imagination, gave great promise of future success, but there was a lack of experience evident throughout. A little unreal, he added. He ventured to suggest that the author would do well to travel around and see the world from different angles. During the afternoon Harvey Sheffelin dropped in for a call. He had found her story in the cosmopolitan and complimented her. Then he began to laugh. Pauline, that's a bully story of yours. But you ought to have gone down and watched some Stoker's do work before you described that scene. What was wrong in my description? demanded the young authoress. Well, you told of a Stoker laying his grimy hand on the fire door and pulling it open to rake the fire. Well, couldn't he do that? Oh, yes! laughed Harvey. He could, but he wouldn't do it more than once. Those doors are almost red-hot and would burn the flesh off the Stoker's hand, whether it were grimy or not. I'll show you on my yacht some time. What you need is— Harvey, don't you dare tell me I need experience. Interrupted Pauline with unexpected heat, young Sheffelin saw that tears were almost in her eyes. Well— Thought Sheffelin— This vein leads to close to water— And he hurried to shift the course of the conversation. But the damage was done. Queen took her story to the little open fireplace in her room and destroyed it. At the same time she destroyed her resolution to give up the year of adventure. There could be no question she needed experience. Her adopted father had admitted it, the editor had said it, and even an empty-headed young man like Sheffelin could see it. She was sorry for Harry, but it couldn't be helped. She picked up a copy of Treasure Island and soon wished fervently that the days of pirates were back again. Owen gave up his fight against Morphean late Friday night. Saturday he was at peace with the world. Gone were all the nerve clamorings and with them went his scruples. All day he kept a furtive watch upon Pauline and even heard her envious remarks about pirates to Harry when he returned for a weekend at home. Owen sympathized with Pauline in her regret that pirates were extinct. A pirate would have been very useful to the Secretary just then. However, there were other cutthroats, plenty of them, and perhaps some other kind would do. There were gunmen, for instance, but an honest district attorney had lately made these murderous gentlemen of the underworld almost as quiet as pirates. He was still pondering when Hicks called again on the telephone. This time the Secretary responded and made an immediate appointment in a cafe near 42nd Street. Owen related the events of the week, ending with Pauline's hankering for pirates. The two men got their heads together and rapidly evolved a plan. From the cafe they took a taxi and rode along the waterfront, first on one side of the island of Manhattan and then on the other. The cab stopped near the worst looking saloons while the two schemers entered and looked over the sailors and longshoremen, refreshing themselves at the bars. After covering several miles of waterfront, they had collected as many as a dozen abominable bar room cigars and a few equally dubious drinks, but had not yet found what they were looking for. On Front Street they saw a man and both cried out, Look, there he is! The man was a wild looking specimen. He had the rolling gate of the deep sea. A squinting eye gave him a villainous leer, while a bristly beard and long grey hair made him a ferocious spectacle. His age was doubtful, as the lines in his ruddy skin might have been cut by dissipation as much as age. The most prominent feature of his unlovely countenance was a nose, fiery red from prolonged exposure to sunburn, or rumburn. If he isn't a pirate, he ought to be one. Said Owen. The man carried the top of the ship's binnacle as the round brass case which holds a ship's compass is called. He entered the dismal portal of a marine junk shop. The taxi was stopped discreetly a block away. As Owen and Hicks approached the shop they heard a loud argument going on inside. How much do you want for it? Ten dollars. It's a brand new negus. Ten nothing. You stole it, your son of a sea-cook. I'll give you a dime for it. I did not steal it, so help me. The captain of that lime-juicer over in the North River gave it to me for saving his little gal's life. He begged me to take anything I wanted, but I fancied this. I'll tell you about it. Then Owen and Hicks, listening just outside, heard a fearful and wonderful tale. To relate it in the sailor's own words, stripped of the long deep sea oase, would be as impossible as to pick the green specks out of a sage cheese. In brief, the gentleman with the binocle, sauntering innocently along the dock's Friday night, had heard a commotion on the British tramp which he referred to as a lime-juicer. Some fifteen or more longshoremen had invaded the ship, overcome the captain, tied him down, and were about to kidnap his daughter. The teller of the story had walked in and thrashed them all single-handed, driven them off into the darkness, rescued the little girl, and released the captain. In gratitude the commander had made him a present of the binocle head. At the conclusion of the story there was a pause. Then the other voice answered, You're a wonder. As I said before, I'll give you ten cents for the binocle, and ninety cents for the story. Now you can take it or I'll have you pinched for swiping it. Give me that dollar. said the hero of the tale. And a moment later he passed down the street with the two eaves-droppers at his heels. The sailor-man, proceeding at a rapid pace, suddenly turned a corner like a yacht jibbing around a buoy, and plunged into a dingy saloon. Owen and Hicks went in after him. Owen ordered and invited the sailor to join them. They learned that his name was Nelson Cromwell Boyd, that he had deserted from the British Navy at a tender age, and since then had been through a series of incredible adventures and injustices which disproved the old adage that you can't keep a good man down. At last Owen intimated that he had a business proposition to discuss, and they adjourned to the sidewalk. Do you want to earn some money? asked Hicks. Well, that depends. said Boyd doubtfully. Easy money! suggested Owen. That's the only kind worth going after. commented the sailor. That's where we agree with you, my friend. said Hicks. We are after easy money and plenty of it. Plenty for us, and plenty for you, too, if you can keep quiet about it. That's the kind of talk I like to hear. But as honest man to honest man, I want to warn you that there mustn't be too much work to it. I don't believe in the nobility of labor. I believe that work is the crowning shame and humiliation of the human race. It's all right for a horse or a dog or an ox to work by the man ought to be above it. It's degrade, interferes with his pleasures and wastes his time. I feel the same way. Agreed, Owen. But somebody has got to work, yet to make shoes and food for us. Yes, admitted the sailor. Very gratefully there will always have to be some work done, and I'm sorry for the poor guys that must do it. But there's been too much work done. Those sentiments are very noble, said Owen. It's all very fine to worry about your fellow man, but you would like to have plenty of money, even if the rest of the world is full enough to keep on working. I suppose so, said the sailor. But I'm a reformer, and my business is to talk, not work. That's just what we want you to do. Said Owen and Hicks in answer. Then they found a table in the rear of a saloon where they could unfold their plan. Boyd was to be introduced to a foolish young girl who had a barrel of money. He was to tell her a deep sea yarn along certain lines, and Owen and Hicks would take care of the rest. The question is, said Owen, whether you can talk and act like a sort of reformed pirate. Believe that, Tommy. He assured them, and led the way out of the saloon and into still another grimy and disreputable place. It was Axel Oliphson's pawn shop and second-hand general supply and clothing store. After much pawing over ancient worn and rusty weapons, Boyd was at last fitted out. The lay was paid about sixty percent of what he asked and left to the enjoyment of his Scandinavian melancholy. He looked like a pirate now, sure enough. Said Owen, observing Boyd's effect on the driver of the taxicab. I look it, but I don't quite feel it yet. Said Boyd, with deep meaning. There is something lacking. What can it be? Asked Hicks. About three fingers of red eye. The sailor explained, pointing to a saloon. That will make my disguise just perfect. In the saloon Hicks and Owen made a little map, wrinkled it and soiled it on the floor, then gave it to the pirate. Tell her. Said Owen, as he called for a taxi. That is only a copy of your original, which is all worn out. The nearer they approached to the house, the more talkative became the pirate. He demanded to know more details of what was to be done, and finally assumed an error of authority. You say that rich girl is crazy to see something worth written about. Now, I know of something better than Pirate's buried treasure. Shouted the pirate confidently. Yes, no doubt. Owen replied soothingly and with some alarm at the man's bravado. It's Pirate she is interested in, just now. Never mind. I say I know something better. Insisted the pirate. If she will go and do what I'm going to tell her, she'll sure see something like she never dreamed of. Now listen to me sharp. It was an extraordinary proposition the pirate made. Owen laughed a gentle discouragement and shook his head, but Hicks fixed his eyes keenly on the man, and was evidently turning the suggestion over in his mind. Owen's key admitted the three to the front hall without ringing, but a maid happened to cross the hall and caught sight of Boyd with a scream and a flutter she retreated. Owen seated his two Confederates in the hall and went in search of Pauline. Owen found Pauline alone in the library. Never did a villain propose a scheme to a beautiful girl at a more favorable moment. Half the afternoon and a little while after dinner she had been absorbing Treasure Island, and now came Owen asking her if she would like to meet a reformed pirate and go on a thrilling and adventurous expedition. Owen, you are a perfect angel. Bring in your pirate. I'm sorry, though, that he has reformed. Pauline shook hands with Hicks, but hardly noticed him. She had eyes only for the pirate, who impressed her mildly. With awe and admiration she saw his scowling and squinting eye run over her and then travel about the room. Owen approved of the pirate, but the pirate did not approve of Pauline, and he almost told her so, but he met the warning eyes of his Confederates and restrained himself. He had his story to tell, and he would do it. After all, that was the best way to attack this girl and her fortune. Tell us about the treasure, said Pauline eagerly. He shouted in a voice that made the girl jump. I'll tell you, but by the blood of Morgan if one of you ever tells a living soul I'll cut his liver out, said the pirate. Pauline gasped, and the Secretary told him that it wasn't considered good manners to point with a sharp knife, but they all swore to secrecy and the pirate proceeded. I was but a slip of a lad, when I ran away and sailed from Liverpool in the good Brignance Sealy, with as villainous a crew as I ever seen. Where we was bound for and why is none of your business. Them that planned that voyage has cashed in their souls to their maker, and, well, as I was saying, they was a villainous crew, low and vile and bloody-minded. I was the cabin boy, and slept on the transoms in the captain's cabin. The weather was awful, and the grub was worse. But all went well till we reached the Roaring Forties. The skipper knew how to handle sailors, you bet he did. When they come after kick about the grub, he knocked them down before they said two words. Pauline gave a little exclamation of dismay at this point, and the pirate turned to her in exclamation. You see, knocking them down quick like that avoids a lot of cross words and unpleasant arguments that such as makes hard feelings on long voyages. Yes, as I was saying, all went well until the second mate got to knocking them out with his left hand, which the same was all right, too, but he was heard to pass a remark one day that he only hit landlubbers with his left hand. The crew day was insulted, and that very night the second mate went overboard. All done it nobody knows, lest ways the captain couldn't find out. They made the old man peevee-slike, and he got to argue on with them sailors instead of walloping the way he ought to done. And one day they turned on him. It was all over in a minute. They had the old man thrown and tied. The first mate came running in, firing his pistols, but they'd downed them, too. I took the wheel while they decided what to do. Bloody Mike, their leader, had about persuaded the men to send the captain and mate to Davy Jones Locker, and the carpenter was rigging the plank for him to walk. When I up and puts in a word, I pleaded for their lie. And, though Mike was dead again the idea, they voted to let them live. The last we saw of them they was drifting off in the jolly boat with the jug of water and a loaf of bread. The mariner paused and Pauline suggested delightedly, and as soon as they had cooled down they were grateful to you and made you their leader. They did not, answered the pirate. They broached a cask of rum in the forward hold, and I overheard them plotting to throw me to the sharks. How awful, said Pauline. Yes, miss, agreed the pirate. It was awkward and embarrassing like for a mare slip of a lad. So I up and goes into the captain's cabin and gets all the pistols and knives and cutlasses there was, and brings them out on deck. Pretty soon them drunk of devils comes a tumbling out of the four-hatch, picks up half a dozen capstan bars and some baleion pins and a marlin spike or two and runs aft, a hollerin' and yellin'. I give them one warnin' and then fires. The pirate stopped, coughed, and looked around. Oh, please go on. Begged Pauline. Yes, miss. Replied the sailor. But this talkin' affects my throat. Could you possibly— Why, certainly— Interrupted Owen. I'll get you a drink. After the sailor had swallowed the biggest drink ever poured out in that house, he continued. Yes. That was as neat a fight as I ever was in. There was some twenty of them all told. And what happened then? Demanded Pauline. Well, miss, it come on to blow, and there was the old ship staggering along under full sail. It was all I could do to keep the old hulk from foundering at that. But I stuck to the wheel day after day and night after night. To keep from freezing I had to drink a lot of grog. Oh, a powerful lot of grog. So much grog that I've been depended on it ever since. And I'll take a little now, if it's agreeable. It wasn't exactly agreeable. But he got it and continued. Finally we fetched up Curse Mack on the rocks of a desert island. All the boats had been smashed and carried away by the storm, so I had to build a raft. The first two loads was all provisions. And then I took the treasurer's shore— What treasurer? Asked Pauline. Oh, bless your heart. Didn't I tell you about the treasurer? No. Said Hicks with a scowl. And that's the part we want to hear about. Ah, money ain't everything. Rebuked the pirate in a lordly manner. There was a matter of a million dollars or so in good British gold. And what it was on the Nancy Lee Forest nobody's business. I took it all ashore and buried it on the island. There's a copy of the chart I made, and you three is the first to lay human eyes on it. While Pauline examined reverently the dingy bit of paper, the pirate concluded his yarn. After I buried the last of it I rigged a mast on the raft and fetched up on one of the Bahamas. And you have never been back to get the gold? Quirried Pauline. No, miss, though I've started many's the time. But a poor seafarin man like me finds it hard to fit out a proper expedition. If you fancy the notion, and want to go along with me and pay all the expenses, I'll divvy up half and half with you. What do you say? Pauline looked at Owen and Hicks, who nodded approvingly. She had no great faith in finding any gold. Old Mr. Marvin had said that treasure hunts rarely produced any results. But he had also remarked that they were very thrilling, and here, surely, was adventure well worth a little time and money. Pauline agreed, and the pirate was in the midst of imposing a blood-curdling oath of secrecy when Harry demanded admittance. Nobody, least of all the sailor, would tell him what was in the wind, except that they were going off on a trip of adventure. The young man disapproved of both Hicks and the pirate, and the latter showed his dislike of Harry. It was with regret the man of the sea recollected Owen's stipulation that Harry must on no account be allowed to go with the party. Nothing would have pleased the pirate better than to have got these two happy and innocent representatives of ill-gotten gains alone with him on the high seas. Pauline, too, wished to have Harry, who was frowning and suspiciously demanding information. But she had sworn the oath of a buccaneer, and far be it from her to break faith with the confiding freebooter. So once more Harry was kept out of Pauline's councils. He was a little provoked at her this time, for her willfulness seemed almost perverse after the lessons she should have learned from the aeroplane wreck. CHAPTER VI. THE TREASURE HUNTERS. An activity pervaded the house. Sunday and Monday everyone, including Harry, soon knew that Pauline was to take Tuesday's steamer to Old Nassau in the Bahamas. Harry intended to quietly board the steamer a little earlier than Pauline and surprise the party by appearing after the ship was well out to sea. His plans were shattered by the young lady's unexpected early arrival. Harry, with a suitcase in each hand, met her face to face on the pier. There was nothing for him to do but confess, kiss her goodbye, and go. It was with a pang of regret that she saw him toss his two suitcases covered with college team labels into a taxi cab and depart. An hour later the four treasure hunters stood looking over the rail watching the last passengers come aboard. The pirate, in a new blue suit, huge Panama hat and light pink necktie, though a rather unusual sight, had been toned down in appearance to a degree that permitted him to walk among people without causing a crowd to collect. Hicks, too, at Owen's suggestion, had adopted quieter attire. Just as the gangplank was about to be pulled in, the deckhands waited to permit a very feeble and bent old man to hobble aboard. He had long, white hair, and his face was mostly gray whiskers except a pair of dark spectacles. A porter followed him bearing two brand-new suitcases. The adventurous four were soon comfortably perched in steamer chairs watching New York harbor slip by them. They had barely reached the Statue of Liberty when the pirate launched forth on one of his Munchausen-like tails of the sea. Highly colored, picturesque, untrue, and absurd as a stained glass window, nevertheless these yams took on a semblance of reality from the character of the narrator himself. In all his stories the pirate was the hero. Nobody noticed that a steward had placed a fifth steamer chair beside the sailor until that worthy reached one of the main climaxes of his narrative. At that point he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around into the whiskers and black spectacles of the old passenger. The cackling voice remarked, It's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie. Everyone was astonished, but even the pirate had a trace of respect for such great age and said nothing in reply. After a while he continued, only to be interrupted by the same words. This was too much to endure, and though if the pirate held his tongue they rebuked the old daughter by walking away and leaning over the rail. The conversation wandered to the subject of sharks, and Pauline asked if they were as stupid as they looked. Don't you believe it? The pirate assured her. Them sharks look stupid just to fool you. I remember a time not so long ago down in Chocobay on the coast of Columbia. There was an old devil who used to sneak up alongside sailing vessels in a fog. He carried in his mouth the big iron shank of an anchor he picked up from the wreck. What did he do that for? Asked Hicks. So the iron would deflect the compass, and make them run the ship onto the kelp ledges off the Pinutis Islands. If a ship went down he stood a good chance of eating one or two of the passengers. But I don't mind sharks. If you want to know what really annoys me it's them killer whales in the Antarctic that comes a crowd and button up against you. It's an infernal monumental epic making lie. Cackled a voice behind him. Everyone looked, and there was the old man. The pirate was now thoroughly exasperated. If he couldn't tell a story without being interrupted in this manner, life wasn't worth living. He announced that he would find the old man and thrash him. Owen and Hicks were annoyed, but they feared the result of the sailor's fury. They might all be arrested on arriving at Nassau. This would interfere with plans, and must not be thought of. To appease the wrathful pirate, Owen offered to have the old man thrashed so soundly that he would probably be glad to stay out of sight the rest of the voyage. There were some rascally-looking men of Spanish blood among the second cabin passengers who, as Owen and Hicks observed, looked needy and unscrupulous. The secretary found no great embarrassment in explaining that he wished the old man thrashed quietly and privately. The Spaniards agreed to beat him thoroughly for the trifling consideration of ten dollars. They would even throw him overboard for a very reasonable sum additional. But the bargain was struck at ten dollars for a moderate beating, and the foreigners were warned that as he was delicate they must be careful not to kill him. During the next hour or two the old man passed the four treasure hunters in their steamer-chairs, but each time the pirate ceased talking before he came within earshot. At last the old man stopped in front of Pauline and gazed long at the pirate. He studied the rascal's face, apparently trying to remember the identity of the man. Slowly the aged head nodded as if he was saying to himself, yes, he is the same man. Then turning to Pauline and shaking a warning finger the old man delivered a surprising message. Pauline was startled. The three men leaped to their feet. It was with the utmost difficulty that she was able to prevent violence. Owen excused himself to hunt up his Spaniards and demand an explanation for their slowness. To his surprise they declared that they had tackled him and that he was as quick and powerful as a gorilla. He had thrashed them both and they were glad to escape with their lives. The ex-secretary was incredulous, but they showed cuts and bruises and demanded their money saying that a joke had been played on them. When Owen refused one of them drew a stiletto and the ten dollars was forthcoming. Being ruefully he related the failure of the Spaniards. The pirate at once said, Now let me handle him. A few minutes later Boyd cornered his ancient adversary on a deserted and windswept piece of deck. Old man. Snarled the pirate. You say all my stories are lies. Only your gray hairs have saved you from a thrashing before this. If it's my gray hairs that stop you I'll remove that obstacle. The pirate was amazed to see the aged person take off his hat and remove a gray wig with his left hand while his right fist collided with the pirate's eye. When consciousness returned he was lying on the deck with no living thing in sight but a seagull aeroplaning on slanted wings over his head. His return to the party was more rueful than Owen's. What is the matter with your eye, Mr. Boyd? Asked Pauline innocently. Why, you see. Said the pirate. I was looking at a girl with one of these new slit skirts and I stumbled and bumped against the ventilator. I see you sort of slipped on a sex appeal, so to speak. Commented Owen to help him out. Yes. Said the sailor gratefully. It was just like that. Said a high, thin voice from somewhere, and they noticed that a porthole behind them was open. Pauline found conversation difficult, hicks as a man of few words which gave him an undeserved reputation for wisdom. The pirate had given up spinning yarns on account of the old man's unfailing interruption. Owen's mind, too, was preoccupied with a growing suspicion. So the adventurous young lady went to her stateroom and wrote a letter to Harry. The sailor intimated that he had important news which could be only told in the privacy of Owen's stateroom. The secretary suspected this to be only a maneuver on the pirate's part to get acquainted with the whiskey he knew Owen kept with him. But the seafarer unfolded the tale of his black eye, not truthfully nor accurately, except that he had recognized Harry under the disguise of the old man. I'm more than half suspected it. Said Owen. And I have been watching his stateroom, but there is no way anyone can see into his room unless by getting a look in through the porthole. And there's where you get a good idea. Said the pirate. But there's no good having a peep at him without his disguise now that it's Harry. Objected Hicks. No. Said the pirate, turning on Owen his lustreless, sea-green eyes, faded by much grog to a dimness that reminded one of the faint light set in ship's decks and known as dead eyes. No, but your porthole idea just to scheme to get at him and get rid of him. I can slip down a rope tonight when all is quiet, and the full passengers are over on the other side, looking at the bloody moon. And then what? Said Owen. I goes down the rope and shoots the old fool. I mean the young fool, uh, through the porthole. Why, that's murder! Cried Owen. We'd all swing for it. No. It ain't murder, it's suicide, cause I'll throw the gun in there where they'll find it when they break the door in and everybody'll think he shot himself. It's practical. Commented Hicks, but Owen protested. At last it was decided that a fourth man was necessary to do the shooting and the pirate volunteered to produce him. There's an old shipmate of mine down in the stoke-hole, working like a nigger. He'll be glad to do the trick for ten dollars. But we'll make it fifty, because the poor fellow has a wife and children and needs the money, and I'll go get him. Owen and Hicks went on deck, while Boyd descended to the fiery vitals of the steamer. It was not an easy matter to smuggle a grimy stoker from his furnace to the upper passenger decks, but the pirate managed it. Meanwhile Harry was not losing time. He had taken a dictograph from his baggage, borrowed a few dry batteries and a coil of wire from the wireless operator. He carefully installed the instrument in his stateroom and led the wires out under his door to the passageway. From there it was an easy task to carry them along the edge of the carpet to the door of Owen's stateroom. Arriving at the point he was compelled to leave pliers, wire, and the receiving instrument under a chair. Like many another stateroom door, Owen's could not be locked easily from the outside, so when the three conspirators went out they left it unlocked. The old man slipped in a moment later and quickly placed the dictograph under the lower bunk. Returning to his own room, the old man took up his instrument and listened. But he was not a very expert electrician, and the dictograph for a long time failed to give anything but roars and crackling sounds, though he was convinced there were several persons talking. At last he got the thing adjusted in time to catch the last sentences of the conversation. He recognized the voice of the pirate. It said, And then we lowered you down the rope to his board-hole. You stick your gun in and shoot the old fool. Don't forget to throw the gun in afterwards so they'll think he killed himself, see? Sure, I gotcha, matey! replied a strange voice. After this the dictograph must have got out of order as nothing further came over the wire. After closing the board-hole Harry started to take off his disguise with a view of revealing himself and having Owen, Hicks, and the pirate arrested. Then it occurred to him that he had not heard Owen or Hicks talking, and very likely they were not in the room at all. It was probably a crazy drunken scheme of the old sailor whom he had tormented. Neither Owen nor Hicks had any suspicion, so far as he knew, that behind the whiskers and eyeglasses was Harry. Owen could have no object in shooting him. Can it be that I'm jealous of this man, Owen? He wondered. Polly has been taking his advice against mine lately. What can that mean? Peace reigned during the evening, while the old liner plunged and rolled past wicked Cape Hatteras. While the passengers listened to the sad orchestra in the saloon, Harry, still in his whiskered disguise, sent a wireless to a lawyer in New York requesting him to telegraph Polly in at Nassau something that would make her come home. Then he went back to his stateroom and locked the door. As he stepped in, he caught sight of the unbeautiful countenance of Mr. Boyd, squinting wickedly at him, from far down the passageway. Just for that evil grin of yours, Mr. Pirate, thought Harry, I'm not going to let you or your friend shoot me until after daylight. So Harry kept his porthole clothes tight that night, sleeping rather restlessly without his accustomed ventilation. Nice he heard a faint scraping sound on the outside of his cabin, and a dark shadow eclipsed the faint nimbus of light which the foggy night sent through his porthole. On the deck, directly over his head, three dark figures sat in deck chairs, while a fourth paced the deck. His cigar glowing like the tail lamp of a distant automobile. The fog began to lift just before dawn, and the stoker, making another trip down his rope, found the porthole open. A hasty inspection of the decks indicated that it was safe to go ahead. Owen, Hicks, and the pirate quickly lowered the stoker, sitting in a little swing known on the sea as a boson's chair. In his hand he carried a pistol which Hicks had provided. Each of the three conspirators had revolvers, but the racetrack's man's weapon was chosen because he had obtained it from a source to which it could not be traced. Down went the stoker, his bare feet clinging to the gently swaying side of the ship. The porthole was open, and there in the dim interior of the cabin the light was reflected from a pair of spectacles. There too were the whiskers and gray hair. The old man seemed to be asleep in his chair right near the porthole. The stoker cocked his revolver and held it ready for instant action. The steamer's foghorn blew a blast at the fast, thinning fog. This noise was just what the stoker wanted. He quickly plunged his pistol into the porthole and fired it point blank in the very face of the old man. There could be no question of missing. He looked up at the three eager faces and nodded that all was well. He called out and was about to hurl the pistol into the state room when an unpleasant and unexpected thing happened. A brawny fist shot out of the porthole and collided with the stoker's coal-blackened jaw. More from surprise than the force of the blow, the stoker fell backward into the sea. The three watchers on deck saw the proceeding, and only one, the pirate, had presence of mind to hurl a life-booey. No alarm was sounded. The steamer went on into the sparkling morning sea, leaving behind her a profane and disgusted stoker. This unfortunate had only a life-booey to aid him on a fifteen-mile swim to shore. Never mind. Said the pirate, after the conspirators had gotten over their first fright at the dashing of their plans. I have an idea. It's a quarken idea, and you'll all like it. What is it? Asked Owen nervously. Here's your drink now. What's your idea? But the pirate wouldn't tell. He objected that it was too startling for them to carry in their timid brains. He would unfold it when the time came, and he promised them that it would be the greatest and most daring project they had ever heard. A murderous glare lit up the faded eyes, and he chuckled to himself. But no offers nor threats would induce him to part with his secret. End of Chapter 6 The Treasure Hunters The Perils of Pauline, Chapter 7 by Charles Goddard. This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 7 A Flirty Buccaneer Arrived at Nassau, the party proceeded to the King Edward House, where Pauline found a telegram from Philip Carpenter, the lawyer, advising her to return as soon as possible to attend the signing of certain important papers. On account of the message, all hands made haste to hunt for a small steamer or launch to complete the trip. Though none of the four saw him, the old man was at the hotel. He lost no time in assuming another and very different disguise, observing to himself that the most valuable part of his college education might prove to be the secrets of makeup he had learned in his college dramatic club. Owen, with his usual forethought, had arranged in advance to be put in touch at once with all available boats. As a result, a gasoline launch with a cabin and state room about one hundred feet long which had once been a yacht was chartered. The pirate stipulation that no stranger should see his island made it necessary for Pauline to deposit a check for twenty five hundred dollars for its safe return. The next morning provisions were brought aboard. The pirate declaring that he could run the engine and all was ready when a difficulty arose. Who was to cook? Pauline volunteered, but Owen objected and finally the pirate's objections to a stranger were overcome. A dark-skinned half-breed with long black hair, who had earned half a dollar by helping carry things on board, volunteered in a gruff voice. A fine cook, best cook on the island, I cook very cheap. Time was too valuable to investigate the man's ability, so he was hired. Off went the white launch. Owen steering under instructions from the pirate, who soon proved he knew gasoline engines. Out of the harbor they went, and then coasted along the beautiful shores of the island. The sea was calm and the crews uneventful for some time, when the pirate called everyone's attention to the fact that it was a long time since breakfast. He went below and addressed the cook, who had shut himself up in his tiny galley as sailors called a boat's kitchen. What's your name? Demanded Boyd. Filippo. Are you a nigger? I guess so. I don't know. Well, what were your father and mother? I don't know. That's funny. But what I want to know is how soon Grubb will be ready. Right away, Sr. All right, Filippo. See that there is plenty of it. God, follow my house, or this ain't what you might call pleasant. Declared the pirate, showing his few teeth in a smile that reminded Pauline of the spiles of an abandoned pier, Pauline was pacing the deck apart from the others in a pleasant dreaminess, scanning the endless azure of the hashed waters. Her thoughts roamed forward and backward, forward to the vague magic land of adventure, where she was to win treasure and delight, fortune and fame, backward to a big, lovely, splendid house in New York City, where a certain tall young man with brown unruly hair and shoulders broad as a sheltering wall must be pining for her. Someone began whistling in the cabin. Pauline paid no attention to it at first. But as the tune suddenly shifted to the very latest musical comedy air, she became interested. Owen never whistled. And Hicks, she imagined, seldom went to the theatres. The song shifted from whistle to words. I'm a greatly wicked person, if there's anybody worse on, this terrestrial circumference of guile. Though I very broadly doubt it, I should like to know about it, for I want to be the blackest thing on file. I'm a bad mad man, my dear. I'm a liar and a flyer and a flirty buccaneer. I've done everything that's awful that a human being can. I'm a bad mad man. The song from Polly Peekaboo. Harry and I heard it only two weeks ago. Mused Pauline. Moved by a sudden whimsy, she entered the cabin. There was no one there but the cook. In his dingy linen suit, he was standing at the table, peeling potatoes and whistling. He stopped as Pauline entered, a tall, powerful man, though of slouching posture. He bowed differentially. No like me sing, no sing. He suggested, On the contrary, I like it very much. You sing very well indeed, Phillipo. Would you mind telling me where you heard the song you were just singing? Big American man, up in Assault, he sang him, Very fine man, big fool daughter. Replied, Phillipo. You speak very good English when you sing. Remarked Pauline. Why don't you do it all the time? The cook hesitated. Peek good English all the time, bad English when sing. Pauline began to scrutinize half suspiciously this remarkable menial, but he kept stolidly at work at the potatoes, and his dark skin, his scraggly beard, his bagging trousers upturned over bare feet, his general dilapidation of appearance, proved him nothing but one of the common derelicts of the languid islands. If you could peel potatoes instead of butchering them, there would be a little more to eat in case we run out of supplies, Phillipo. Suggested Pauline. He turned on her a frank American grin. For an instant, the twinkle in the keen blue eyes upset her. It was so like the twinkle in a pair of keen blue eyes that were supposed to be figuratively weeping for her fate, in far off New York. But instantly he changed his attitude. No like cook, cook quit. He grumbled. Oh no indeed, Phillipo, you must not be offended. I was just speaking to Mr. Owen this morning about raising your salary. A thick voice came to them from the cabin door. I begs to report, Miss. Said Blinky Boyd, the pirate reeling in. Let there be mutiny in your crew. Mr. Hex and Mr. Owen, Miss, has rebelled against me authority, and has refused me drink. This is outrage, Mr. Boyd. They do not realize how your nerve-wracking adventures have shattered your strength. I will attend to it myself. Said Pauline sympathetically, Phillipo, give Mr. Boyd a drink. Drink? Yes, ma'am. Repied, Phillipo, with such unwanted alacrity that Pauline turned in surprise. She saw the slouching figure of the cook suddenly stiffened to his fall, stalwart height. She saw an ill-clad but majestic giant stride toward the pirate, bowl him over with a gentle tap, pinion his arms and legs in a lifting grasp, and carry him toward the door of the cabin. Cries of rage came stubbly from the thick throat of Boyd. Let me go, you scum! Let me go! He yelled. Phillipo! Phillipo, stop this instant! How dare you treat Mr. Boyd in such a manner! Cried the indignant girl. You say, give him drink. He say, let me go. Answered Phillipo, pausing with his squirming burden. Drink, you fool! Drink! She is telling you to give me a drink! Screamed the hero of desperate encounters. Big fat drink. Agreed the cook, as he strode toward the rail. Pauline rushed upon him. The peril of her precious pirate stirred all her courage. She saw her dreams vanishing. The chief narrator, navigator, and guide of the treasure voyage suspended in two strong arms over the blue deep. Forgetting that he was accustomed to conquer twenty men single-handed, she felt only pity for his plight. Her soft but determined hand gripped the cooks. Phillipo, obey my orders! She commanded. Yes, ma'am, let him go. Give him drink. Big liar need big drink. He lifted the struggling but utterly helpless form of the pirate over his shoulders. Then with a sudden, stooping movement, he made as if to plunge it into the sea. Help! Help! Cried Pauline, running up the deck. Hicks and Owen rushed from their staterooms. Blinky Boyd was quivering, gasping beside the rail. They found a slouching, uncommunicative cook, stolidly washing dishes in the galley. Some hours later, while Boyd was sleeping off his potations, and Hicks and Owen were deep in conference on the deck, Pauline slipped down into the galley ostensibly to explain the rudiments of the culinary art to the cook. The trouble is that you have no respect for a potato, Phillipo. You slashed the poor thing to pieces, and then you boil it only long enough to hurt its feelings. Peel potato nice, good. He apologized. Then peel them pirate. Phillipo wanted to peel pirate. Boil them just half-hurt in feelings. That's how. Oh, I see. But I think you do, Mr. Boyd, a great injustice, Phillipo. He has consented to come all the way from New York with us, and take command of our boat and find the buried treasure and- Buried potatoes. Collect, Phillipo, with a sudden reversion to his unimpaired English. Well, at least you understand about tomorrow's breakfast now, don't you? Yes, ma'am. Boil them eggs to death, no peel them. No, no, no, Phillipo. Boil them two minutes and a half. Here, take my watch and go by that. You must be very careful of it, Phillipo. Yes, ma'am. Boil them long time. Stick fork in. See when soft. No. Pauline caught the watch from him. You don't boil the watch at all, Phillipo. You boil the eggs and watch the watch. Can you tell time, Phillipo? Yes, ma'am. How long is an hour? Peel potatoes hours very, very long. Talk to ship's lady, wished, hour and no time. Answered Phillipo with upcast hands. Again, she eyed him through her long lashes a little askance. He was rather subtle, this half-breed cook, for one who could not even boil an egg. I will let you have the watch, Phillipo. She said gravely. But you must give it back to me. It is one of the most precious things I have. It was given to me by... Phillipo, were you ever in love with a girl? Sure, ma'am. Replied the cook with sudden enthusiasm. Love daughter, big American. No love me. Big American daughters start from Nassau. Get buried treasure, not. Phillipo, where do you get all your New York slang? Big American daughter, she slings slang good. Said Phillipo. Why did you fall in love with her? Nice girl, no eat much, no scold cook, no talk about potatoes. Just big fool about buried treasure. What do you think love is? Love, huh? Granted, the cook. I like her. Girl no like me. She is all around the world, no good. That watch was given to me by the man I love, Phillipo. Said Pauline. You won't boil it, or anything, will you? As Phillipo took the tiny diamond-scarred timepiece from Pauline's hand, there was a sound as of someone choking at the top of the steps. The cook sprang to the deck, but there was no one in sight. He returned to Pauline while Blinky Boyd, gasping more from astonishment than fear, pulled up to Owen and Hicks on the forward deck. She's gone clean, crazy. He panted. She treats that there cook, as if he was a natural human man, instead of a Saint Groven gorilla worse than the one I beat in Africa. No more gorillas for a while, Blinky. Commanded Hicks. What's happened now? She's gone and got him, her jeweled watch. To boil eggs, boy. Said the pirate. By George, we will have to do something with that fellow. Muddered Hicks to Owen as they walked away. Do something to him. Blinky Boyd was fuming in the wake of Owen and Hicks on their stroll up deck. Do everything to him. Make him walk to the old board, draw on a quarter of them. Did he attempt me life, and ain't he at present, engaged in stealing the family jewels? Well, have you got any ideas? Asked Owen. The first thing. Whispered Blinky. Is to get him under the influence of Lecker. There never was no cook, could stand up again, the disgraceful habit of taking too much and doing too little. Get him under the influence. And then what? Then? Well, ain't they a lot of good blue water floating around atop the fishes? Ain't they some acoma-dating sharks swimming atop the water? That's a bit crude. Just to throw a man overboard for nothing. Said Owen, willing to arouse Boyd's anger. For nothing! Didn't he insult the master of the ship? Ain't he tried to starve us to death? For what kind of nothing, says I? What smote his caving chest in an emphasis of his accusations? And he would have the diamond watch on him in case he should be picked up. Suggested Hicks quietly. That's so. Said Owen. He would have been swimming to shore with the stolen watch, and drowned. But of course he would swim to shore in this. Well, it's a case of making sure beforehand. We could persuade him to go in and try to kill Blinky here while Blinky is asleep, then rush in and finish him. Even Pauline was a witness to the attack he made on Blinky this afternoon. The pirate's glowing countenance suddenly went white. Not this trip! He said fervently, I ain't going to kill no man in a trap like that. I'm going to see it done fair and square. And he opened with plenty of drink and his conscience clear. I wouldn't see no man die with murder in his heart for me. I don't like it. Said Owen nervously. I don't like the idea of doing too much. We've got one big piece of work to do that concerns her. He nodded in the direction of the cabin. Do you mean to say we can't get a poor half-breed cook off this boat without killing him? I not discharge him. Hicks uttered a grim chuckle. I must say I never thought of that. Get a boatman, will you, Boyd, and we'll put him ashore within half an hour. All hands ford! Bellowed the pirate's voice, the all hands were Owen, Hicks, the pirate, and Pauline. By all hands, can't you handle the cook yourself? Said Owen, Not about that cook ashore, you need a navy. Said Boyd. Backed by Owen and Hicks, he moved to the cabin. You cook there, get fired, get off the boat, your carriage waits. He cried down at the busy Filippo. Filippo shuffled almost meekly toward the speaker. He saw the skiff alongside, and Hicks and Owen nearby. Grab them! Ordered the pirate. Here's the irons. He produced a pair of rusty handcuffs that had been brought along, among other ominous looking junk, to impress Pauline. But Filippo was not fired yet. With a sudden, long-distance lunge, he knocked down the pirate, who thought he was at a safe distance. But Hicks, who had been well-schooled in street-fight tactics, thoughtfully stuck out a leg and tripped the cook, who fell upon the groaning Boyd. Boyd, though down, was by no means out, and held Filippo tight while Owen and Hicks slipped on the handcuffs. Now, to the boat with him, and dump on my shore, wherever it looks hottest and hungriest. Yeah. He snarled in the face of the prostrate cook. You don't interfere no more with the captaining of this here vessel. I hope she ate— But his sentence was cut short, or rather it ended in a shriek of pain and fright, as the cook, suddenly swinging himself from his shoulders, landed a terrifically propelled right foot in the pirate's middle. He was pinned down again the next moment, but Boyd's yell had penetrated to the cabin. What is the matter? Who's hurt? cried Pauline, rushing to the group on deck. Well, you've had to order this fellow put ashore. He is twice a tech Boyd, and besides, he is useless as a cook, explained Owen. You will assuredly do nothing of the sort, announced Pauline. You will take those horrid iron things off and set him free. But my dear Miss Marthen, he is a desperate man. It is dangerous. What did we come here for, but to get into danger? cried Pauline. Besides, Philippo is the most interesting person on the ship. I have just devoted a chapter to him in my book, and if you think I'm going to spoil my book because Mr. Boyd gets hurt or the potatoes aren't done, you are much mistaken. Owen obediently knelt and unlocked the clumsy handcuffs. You are free, Philippo, said Pauline, with the air of a proud princess, releasing a surf. No fire, grunted Philippo. Too bad. Bum job. Go back to the kitchen and promise not to strike Mr. Boyd any more. No hit him. Boil him. Three minutes. Stick fork in him. Said the cook, with a cannibal glare at the still writhing pirate. He shuffled off to his pots and pans. Blinky scrambled to his bunk, and Pauline retired to elaborate the fascinating character of Philippo in another chapter of her book of adventure. She did not realize how late it was when at last she put down her pen and moved with soft slipper steps to the door of the cabin. Over the great vault of the heavens the stars were sprinkled like silver dust. The boat rolled softly, dreamily, on the listless waters. A cool breeze scented with the fragrance of the spiced land cooled her brow. She realized that her little stateroom had been very stuffy. It was beautiful here in the hushed night alone. She moved out on deck. They had come to anchor for the night off St. Andrew, and the few faint lights of the town tinged the scene with life. Pauline was thinking of Harry. It would have been nice if he were here now, in the moonlight, just for this evening. Of course, if he were a regular member of the party he would spoil the trip by his grumpiness and probably prevent them from finding any treasure at all. But Harry was a good companion, usually. And Pauline was getting a little tired of the company on the yacht. The night was so still that even her light footstep could be heard on the deck, and she was surprised to hear a muffled hail from some invisible craft astern. As she moved to the rail, her tall form in the yachting suit, standing out plainly in the moonlight, she saw a small boat scurry away. She thought she recognized their own small boat, the one the yacht towed, and she quickly made sure that this was true. Pauline turned toward the cabin to rouse the others for a real pirate chase. When she was silenced and stunned by the sight of Filippo, the cook, staggering out of the galley, with his bearded chin drooping on his breast, his knees swaying under him, his arms weeding cubist caricatures in the air, and his voice raised an unintelligible song. He was quickly followed by the pirate, who, to Pauline's amazement, actually presented a picture of sobriety, in contrast to Filippo. But on seeing her, Boyd looked frightened. They have stolen the skiff, cried Pauline. No, miss, said Boyd. They was four of them come aboard in one boat, and we let them take our nashore to bring a double load of supplies. Pauline was grievously disappointed. She turned her wrath upon the musical and meandering Filippo. Filippo! She demanded, Go to bed at once! For answer he reeled toward her. Cook boiled, boil three minutes, he said. Then with alert he fell sprawling at her feet. Boyd had started back to the cabin in haste and excitement. Filippo's first instinct was to leave the inebriated man, but pity mastered her and she stooped to lift him. He sprang to his feet without her aid. His blue eyes looked clearly into hers. His body towered again to its commanding height, as it had done when he was about to finish the pirate. He stooped and spoke rapidly, sharply in her ear. There was no pigeon chatter. It was straight English. But as the door of the cabin opened again and Boyd came out, the tall form sank into itself, the knees began to rock, the arms to weave, and, staggering back up the deck, he disappeared in the cabin. Pauline stood stupefied. She had been so startled by the sudden transformation of the man that she had hardly understood his strident words. Only one thing she could remember, he had commanded her to go to bed and bar her door. She obeyed, but she could not sleep at first. It seemed that hours had passed when a sound outside her door brought her to her feet. She moved to the door and softly opened it. Across the threshold lay Filippo, wide awake. Go to bed. He said, again she obeyed, and this time she slept. The next morning everything seemed outwardly as usual. The skiff had been restored to its place astern. The pirate was intoxicated, the cook sober. But there was the threat of trouble in the air. Pauline felt it in the attitude of all the men, even of Owen and Hicks. The pirate showed a strange new tendency to make friends with Filippo. Can you steer a cook? He asked, after the latter had announced that dinner was ready. Yes. Said Filippo. All right, take the wheel and keep her as she's going, till we round that point I had there. Filippo took the wheel and the others descended to find the cabin table set. There was a prodigious amount of fried steak and boiled potatoes as the main part of the meal. To their dismay they found the steak was as tough as leather. A wail of sorrow arose when the potatoes proved to be so hard that Pauline doubted if they had been boiled more than three minutes. The pirate, whose table manners savored of the forecastle, tried a biscuit and found it as hard a stone and almost as heavy. In his anger he hurled it at the side of the cabin and was horrified to see it go through the boat's side. He did not know that the biscuit happened to strike a hole that had been temporarily stopped up with putty and paint. He turned speechless to the others and saw Hicks lift a biscuit on high about to dash it onto the cabin floor. With instant presence of mind he seized the arm of Hicks and in a hoarse voice shouted, Don't do that, you sink the ship, look what mine did. They all gazed in amazement at the ragged aperture in the side of the cabin through which the sparkling waters of the Atlantic could be seen dancing past. Events moved swiftly that afternoon. Owen, peering in the galley porthole, beheld the disguised cook remove his wig to wash his face and recognize the curly light hair of Harry. About four o'clock the launch tied up to the landing at the small village of St. Andrew. There Owen had opportunity to reveal his discovery of Harry's presence to the other two conspirators. They were frightened at first, but soon agreed that it was a fine chance to get rid of both at the same time. The pirate confided to them that he had brought a clockwork bomb along and had it in his bag. A few minutes discussion produced a simple plan. Owen sent the disguised Harry with a bucket in search of a spring and Pauline was already hunting strange flowers among the palms and creepers. This left the conspirators free to place the bomb under the cabin floorboards, a matter which Owen attended to himself. It was set to explode two hours later. Pauline and Filippo were then summoned and told that there were comfortable lodgings and a good meal obtainable at a village just the other side of the long narrow point of land. If Pauline and Boyd and Filippo would go around in the launch, Owen and Hicks would climb through the jungle and get there in time to have a meal already upon the boat's arrival. The two parties separated and all was quiet for some time. Pauline sat on deck with the pirate, endeavouring to engage him in conversation. But he grew surlier and surlier in his answers, looking frequently at his watch and often stopping below for a drink. After about an hour and three-quarter Pauline became a little frightened at his behaviour and descended to the cabin. There was the cook reading a cookbook, evidently his own. The moment Pauline was out of sight, the pirate heaved a sigh of relief and abandoned the wheel. Stepping softly to the stern, he pulled in the small boat which was towing a stern, leaped in adroitly and cut it adrift. Filippo, said Pauline, you told us you were a good cook. Yes, señorita, I thought I was. Have you ever cooked before? No, but I have a cookbook which tells how everyone may be a cook. I thought— Filippo did not finish his sentence. His eyes were roving around the cabin in search of something, and Pauline was looking very hard at him. What's that ticking sound? Inquired the cook. He went to the cabin clock and listened. No, it wasn't that. Pauline could hear it, too, and it wasn't her tiny watch. Filippo made a search of the cabin and finally located the sound under the floor. A moment more, and he had laid bare the pirate's bomb. He leaped on deck and took in at a glance that the pirate had left in the only boat. In another instant he was below again, tearing off his wig. Pauline, it's I. There's an infernal machine ticking here ready to blow us up. He tried to lift up the bomb, but it was wedged fast. Harry, for heaven's sake, what do you mean? I'll tell you in a minute in the water as soon as we have jumped overboard. Come. He seized Pauline, carried her up on the deck. Where's Mr. Boyd? Gone. Answered Harry, putting a live preserver around her. Now, will you jump or shall I throw you overboard? One, two, three— I'll jump. Had Pauline, and with arms around each other they leaped into the warm ocean. On went the white launch, serene and unruffled by the desertion of its crew. In answer to Pauline's demand for explanation, Harry only answered, Wait. Finally it came. A belch of flame shot up from the launch, driving a column of smoke far into the sky, where it spread out and formed a majestic ring, which floated and curled for many moments. A concussion reached them through the water, and another in the air smote their ears. The after-part of the launch rode on the waters for a moment, and then disappeared. Finally, a succession of waves tossed them and passed on. What does it mean? Insanity, sheer downright insanity. That wretch of a pirate was a crazy man. He placed that bomb intending to kill all of us, and Owen deserves a sound thrashing for having anything to do with such a murderous lunatic. I think you're rather hard on Owen, Harry, said Pauline. Of course we all know that pirates aren't nice persons, but nobody could foresee that the man was crazy. Well, perhaps, but don't talk. We have a mile and a half to swim ashore. They were spared that ordeal by the cerulean liner, Keridoc. Arrayed and borrowed clothes, they were notified of a second rescue, and came out on deck in time to behold in the dusk of evening the pirate. He was relating to an admiring throng how he had stuck by the burning ship till it exploded. He had actually been blown into the air and had fallen by good luck into the little boat. It's a lie, said Harry, in the old man's cackling voice. The pirate heard the voice of the old man and saw the face in the blonde hair of Harry. It was too much for his evil and murderous mind to bear. With a shriek he hurled himself over the rail into the sea. The Keridoc stopped and searched, but no trace of the pirate could be found. THE CORDELHUE RECEPTION Two weeks later Pauline and Harry were sitting in the library. Through the half-closed blinds a soft breeze bore to them the fragrance of carnations and roses. For the first few days after their return Pauline was so thankful they had not lost their lives that she was reconciled to not having found the treasure. But only for the first few days. She was already growing restless. You're wasting time, Harry. She said impatiently, I'd rather face anything than be bored to death. Pauline, it's got to stop. It isn't safe. It isn't sensible. It isn't even fun anymore. Won't you drop the whole freakish thing and marry me? Harry was holding Pauline by the hand as she drew her dainty way out of the library. In laughing rebellion she looked over her shoulder and jeered at him. Oh, I thought it was I who was going to be afraid. She said, Well, if you aren't, who's going to be? You! She tittered. He drew her back with a gentle but firm grasp. Honestly, Pauline, aren't you satisfied yet? Adventure is all right for breakfast or for luncheon once a month, but as a regular unremitting diet it gets on my nerves. Still thinking of your own perils? She volleied. His fine keen face took on a look of earnest appeal. He let go her hand, but as she started to run up the stairs he held her with his eyes. You dear silly boy! She cried, returning a step and clasping him in an impetuous embrace. You are the nicest brother in all the world, sometimes. But just now I think that adventure is nicer than brothers or husbands. I'm having the time of my life, Harry boy, and I'm going on and on and on with it until I've seen all the wild and wicked people and places in the world. Harry caught her hand and smiled down at her in surrender. A ring at the doorbell and the entrance of the maid caused Pauline to flutter up the stairs. They were preparing to attend the courtel use reception that evening to the great Basconelli, whose musical achievements had been equaled only by his social successes during this his first New York season. Anyway, she twinkled from the top of the stairs. You needn't be frightened for tonight. Nothing so meek and mild as a pianist can hurt you. Harry tossed up his hands in mimic despair and started back to the library. Yes, I know. She is always at home to you, Miss Hamlin. The maid was saying at the door. What a privileged person I am. Laughed Lucille Hamlin. She was Pauline's chum in chief, a dark, still tempered girl in perfect contrast to the adventurous Polly. She greeted Harry with the easy grace of old acquaintanceship. Still nursing the precious broken heart. She queried. For the love of Michael, me, and humanity. He pleaded. Can't you do something? She won't listen to me. I'm honestly, deucidly worried, Lucille. You know very well that nobody could ever do anything with Polly. She always had to have her own way, and that's why you love her, though you don't know it, Harry. Shall I run upstairs, Margaret? She added, turning to the maid. No, you're going to stay here. Commanded Harry, seizing her hands. You've got to do something with Pauline. You're the only one who can. She wants a new adventure every day, and a more dangerous one every time. Talk to her, won't you? Tell her it isn't right for her to risk her life when her life is so precious to so many people. No, wait a minute. Sit down here. I'm not half through yet. He drew her under laughing protest to a seat beside him on the stairs. She realized suddenly how serious he was. She let her hand rest comradely in his pleading grasp. Why, Harry, yes, if it is really dangerous, you know, I'll do anything I can. She said gravely. They did not see the cold gray face of Raymond Owen appear at the top of the stairs. The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. In her bordeaux Polly was laying out her fine wreath of the evening. There came a soft wrap at the door. Command! She called, and looked up brightly in Owen's furtive eyes as he opened the door and motioned to her. Don't say anything, please, Miss Marvin. He whispered, just come with me for a moment. Bewildered by his manner, she followed to the top of the stairs. He directed her gaze to the two young people in earnest conversation below. It was a picture that might well have startled a less impetuous heart than Pauline's. Harry's hand still grasped blue seals, and he was leaning toward her in the eagerness of his appeal. You will? You promise? Lucille, you've made me happy." Pauline heard him say. Through miss dimmed eyes, dizzily, she saw the two arise. She saw the man she loved clasp Lucille's other hand. She saw the girl who had been her friend and confidant since childhood draw herself away from him with a lingering withdrawal that could mean, ah, what could it not mean? Pauline fled to her room. In Owen's subtle secret battle to retain control of the Marvin millions, fate had never so befriended him. None of all the weapons or ruses that he had used to prevent the faithful attachment of Harry and Pauline was as potent as this little seed of jealousy. Pauline rang for her maid. Tell Miss Hamlin that I am not at home. She said in a voice that started hotly, but ended in a sob. But, Miss Marvin. Margaret tried to demur. Tell Miss Hamlin that I am not at home. Repeated Pauline, Lucille had just started up the stairs, leaving Harry with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Well, even if I can't do anything with that wild woman. She laughed back at him. You know Pauline bears a charmed life. Nothing has ever happened to her yet. Guardian angels surround her, as well as heroes. Harry walked into the library. The agitated Margaret met Lucille on the stairs. Miss Marvin is—Miss Marvin is not at home. The girl said, flushing crimson. Lucille paused, dumbfounded. But Margaret, you know I thought— I really thought she was at home, Miss Hamlin. I hope you won't be offended with me. I insist upon seeing her. cried Lucille. I don't believe you're telling me the truth. I'm going right up to her room. Margaret burst into tears. Lucille quickly reconsidered. Indignation took the place of astonishment. She hurried down the stairs and rushed through the door without waiting for Margaret to open it. Pauline, back in her own room, vented her first rage in tears. With her hot face pressed against the pillow, she sobbed out the agony of what she thought her portrayal, her double-betrayal, by Cordier and Comrade at once. But the tears passed. Too vital was the spirit in her. Too red-flowing in her veins was the blood of fighting ancestors. Too strong the fortress of self-command within the blossoming gardens of her youth and beauty for the word surrender ever to come to her mind. True, she had found an adventure that stirred her more deeply than the peril of land or sea or sky could have done. Here was a thrill that had never been listed among her intended tremors. She sent for Owen. Masked as ever in his suave exterior and his manner of mingled obsequeseness and fatherliness, he came instantly. Mr. Owen, have you known—have you known that this was going on? I feel that it is my duty to know what concerns you, even what concerns your happiness, Miss Marvin. He answered, You mean— I mean that I have long had my suspicions. But again, the very perfection of his deceit brought Pauline that feeling that she had had since childhood, that sense of an insidious influence always surrounding her, always menacing, and yet never revealed. This influence, which Owen seemed to embody, was the antagonist of that other mysterious power so real and yet so inexplicable that warded and protected her, the spirit of the girl that had stepped from the mummy. Pauline had seen with her own eyes. She did not need any word of Owen's to convince her of the falsity of her lover. She was quite calm now. She dressed with the utmost care. Margaret, who had seen her in such anger only a short time before, was surprised at her sprightliness and graciousness. A slightly heightened color that only added to the luster of her loveliness was the single side of her inward thoughts. She summoned her own car and left the house alone. The drawing-room of the Clarence Cordelieu mansion was ablaze with light. There was a little too much light. The Clarence Cordelieu always had a little too much of everything. There was a little too much money. There was a little too much gold leaf decoration in the drawing-room. There was a little too much diamond decoration of Mrs. Cordelieu, and, if you were so facitiously impolite as to say so, a little too much of Mrs. Cordelieu herself. But Mrs. Cordelieu was struggling toward gentility in such an amiable way that better people liked her. The motherliness and sweet sincerity of her, the fact that she loved her frankly illiterate husband and worshipped, almost from afar, her cultured daughters, was the thing that brought her down from the base height of the climbers and lifted her kindly harmless personality to the high simplicities of the elite. She made the natural mistake that other wealthy mendicants at the outer portals of society have made the mistake of pounding at the gates. Instead of letting the splendor of her charitable gifts, the gracefulness of her simplicity carry her through, she went in for the gorgeous and the costly. As a sort of crowning glory she began to take up artists and actors and musicians. She gained the good graces of the best of them, and in her kindly innocence she won the worship of the worst. It was thus that she came to the point of holding a reception for Bascinelli. Not that anyone had heard anything black or even shadowy against Bascinelli. He had arrived recently from abroad, his foreign fame preceding him, his prospective conquests of America fulsomely foretold, his low brow decorated in advance with laurel. Miss Cordelieu added him to her collection with the swiftness and directness of the entomologist discovering a new bug. She herself loved music, without understanding it very deeply. And Bascinelli, whatever might be his other gifts, could summon all the cadences of love from the machines that people call a piano, engine of torture or instrument of joy. For half an hour, Harry paced at the foot of the stairs. I wonder if she's ever coming. He fumed to himself. It takes him so long to do it that they drive you crazy, and when it's done, they're so wonderful that they drive you crazy. Did you wish anything, sir? Asked the butler, entering. No. Just waiting for Miss Pauline Jenkins. Just waiting. Side, Harry. Why, if I may presume to tell you, sir, Miss Marvin has gone to their reception. Said Jenkins. Gone. Harry cried abruptly, hotly, then remembered that he was speaking to a servant and swung into the reception room. He put on his hat and coat and rang for Jenkins again. How long ago was it that Miss Pauline went out? Almost an hour ago, sir. Harry slammed his way out of the door. It was not until he was in the car on his way to the Cordelieu's that he began to think. Began to think with utterly wrong deductions, as lovers always do. I must have said too much. He told himself. She's crazy about these wild pranks, and she thinks I'm a stupid goody-goody. What a fool I was to try and prevent her. You aren't very nice, Mr. Marvin, to snub my pet musician. My very newest pet musician. Mrs. Cordelieu rebuked him as he entered. I didn't mean it. I was wait. Why, my car went to pieces. He explained. Is Pauline here? Here? She is the only person present. Bascinelli hasn't spoken a word to anyone else. He won't play anything unless she suggests the subject. I am glad Mr. Owen is here to protect her. From the citulent, flimsy mist of women around the piano, Lucille emerged. She came swiftly to Harry's side. What is the matter? She asked. What's the matter? Tell me. He replied. What did you say to her? I didn't see her, Harry. She sent word that she was not at home. You don't mean not after you started upstairs? Yes, and she hasn't spoken to me all evening. And she left me waiting at home for half an hour. It's outrageous. Harry strode across the floor just as the music ceased, and Bascinelli arose, bowing to the applause of his feminine admirers. May I ask the honour to show you, Madam Corleuse, portrait myself? It is called the glorification of imbecility. He said, as he proffered his arm to Pauline. He was a small man with sharp features shattered by a mass of flowing, curling hair, the kind of hair that has come to be called musical by the irreverent. The sweep of an abnormal brow gave emphasis to the sudden jut of deep eye sockets, and a dull, sallow skin gave emphasis to the subtle, sinister light of the eyes themselves. Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist, but daintily, laughingly, she turned him back to the piano. You haven't yet escaped, Senor Bascinelli, she said. We have not yet heard Tivoli, you know. Tivoli? He cried, with hands upraised and mocked disdain. Tivoli? I wrote the thing of myself. Am I to violate even my own masterpieces? There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women. Bascinelli began to play again. Pauline, may I speak to you? Just a moment. Harry's vexed voice reached her ear as she stood beside the piano. She turned slowly, and looked into his bewildered, angry eyes. A little later, possibly. She answered, and instantly turned back to Bascinelli. From her no mask of music, no glamour of others' admiration, could hide the predatory obsequeseness of Bascinelli. She was not, in the least, interested in Bascinelli. She had loathed him from the moment when she had looked down on his little oily curls. But if Bascinelli had been Beelzebub, he would have enjoyed the favour of Pauline that evening, at least after Harry had arrived. The glowing pecanth beauty of Pauline and thrall Bascinelli, he had never before seen a woman like her. Innocent, but astute, daring, but demure, brilliant, but opalescent. When at last they strolled away together into the conservatory, his drawing-room obsequences became direct declarations of love. Pauline began to be frightened. She fluttered to the door of the conservatory. But there she paused. Voices sounded from the end of a little rose-rimmed alley. They were the voices of Harry and Lucille. Bascinelli was at her side again. If I have said anything, done anything to offend— He said, with affected contrition— You will let me make my loatheous apologies, won't you? Pauline hardly heard him. She was intently listening to the low-pitched voices. I—I think I will run back to the others. She cried suddenly. Bascinelli was left alone. I congratulate you, senor, on the success of the evening. Said a voice at his shoulder. There are few among the famous who can conquer drawing-rooms as well as auditorium. The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen. I thank you, I thank you, sir, but I do not believe you. My conquest has turned to catastrophe. I have lost everything. You mean that you are dissatisfied with the applause? Asked Owen. No, no, applause is nothing from the many. There is only one in the audience to whom he plays from his soul. And that one, tonight? The lovely miss. What now is her name, Marvin? She the witches me, and she scorns me. Senor Bascinelli, there are other places than drawing-rooms, or even conservatories, in which to capture those who captivate. I do. I quite grasp your meaning, Mr. Owen. He tried to disguise the suspicion under an accent accent. I think so, Monsieur Pequare. At the name, Bascinelli turned livid. He made a movement as if he would lunge at the throat of Owen, but his fury withered under the glassy smile. So we met in Paris? Once upon a time, a little incident in the Rue Saint-Jean. A young woman was concerned of that incident, and was not heard of, afterward. And you are trying to blackmail me for the death of Marie de Sartre. Ha! That is a jest. Cried Bascinelli. I am trying to do nothing of the kind. I simply reminded you of the little affair. I know as well as you that was all beautifully cleared up, and a man is still in prison for it. I know you are as safe here as that man is in jail. Oops, in your Bascinelli. What are you talking about then? The little woman who so charmed you here. I remarked merely that those who were captivated can capture. Not in a distant country, not among the Puritans. One who must be good and unhappy. You haven't forgotten your little friends Mario and Di Palma and Vittorio. They are all respected residents of New York. We know where they might be found. At the Cagalichis? Precisely. Dining upon the best of spaghetti and the riches of wines, and paying for it at the point of a stiletto. But ha! You are talking in a nonsense. We could not find them. They could not find us. We might telephone and try. Suggested, Owen? Calliacci, you know, is now up to date. He has a telephone. He considers it a sign of respectability. And then, what do you propose? Pequah. I mean, Signor Bascinelli. I propose nothing. Unless possibly there might be, after the reception, a little motor trip to Chinatown. It might amuse the ladies. You are right. I will invite them all, said Bascinelli. And how about calling up Marie at Calliacci's, just as an old friend? It might be best. They move together down the corridor, and Owen directed their way to a little study secluded from all other apartments of the Great House. You seem to be familiar with the home of her gracious hostess, remarked Bascinelli. I make it a rule to be familiar with all homes in which Miss Marvin is entertained. Miss Marvin, you are then a relative? I am a guardian. Ah, you have a control, perhaps, of certain small sums bequeathed to her? Yes. And you would like to have as few persons as possible in the Chinatown party? As few as possible. In a place known only as Calliacci's, in the drage depths of Elizabeth Street, the ringing of the telephone bell was much more startling, much more unusual than the crash of a pistol shot, or the blast of a bomb. The habitus moved quietly to the door that leads to the roofs, while Pietro Calliacci himself wiped the dust-covered receiver on his apron and put it to his ear. He spoke softly, tersely. The conversation was very brief. In a minute, after he had hung up the receiver, three grimy-clad, grim-visaged men left the place silently. Harry and Lucille came out of the conservatory. I tell you, there wasn't anything said between us that could have caused it. He was saying, I was fighting the whole thing hard, but I was fighting it like a beggar. I am always a beggar with Pauline. But you told her it wasn't right that she was risking other people's lives? No, I told you to tell her that. In spite of her distress over Pauline's coldness, Lucille burst into laughter. They were just emerging into the music room. Pauline, like the others, turned at the unexpected sound. She gave one glance at the two, and turned hotly away. Basconelli was bustling about, making up an impromptu excursion party. Ha! You people of New York! You do not know what is in New York. All Europe is there, and you never cross 14th Street. I mean to say Fifth Avenue. It's more dangerous to cross Fifth Avenue than to cross the ocean. That's probably the reason, said Harry. The traffic cops along the Gulf Stream are so careful. Pauline stopped Basconelli's intended reply. She wanted Harry to be ignored utterly. Her anger had made him flippant. His flippancy had put the seal of completeness upon her anger.