Hell's Hatches

NEW FICTION
THE CURTAIN By Alexander Macfarlan THE SYRENS By Dot Allan OLD MAN'S YOUTH By William de Morgan THE PURPLE HEIGHTS By M. C. Oemler HAGAR'S HOARD By George Kibbe Turner THE VILLA OF THE PEACOCK By Richard Dehan IN CHANCERY By John Galsworthy SNOW OVER ELDEN By Thomas Moult EUDOCIA By Eden Phillpotts
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21, Bedford Street, W.C. 2
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE

Slant Allen and I, between us, had been monopolizing a good share of the feature space in the Queensland and New South Wales papers for a week or more—he as the Hero-Ticket-of-Leave-Man and I as the gifted Franco-American painter whose brilliant South Sea marines have taken the Australian art world by storm —and now that it was definitely reported that he had left Brisbane on his way to connect with the reception the boyhood home from which he had been shipped in disgrace five years before had prepared for him, I knew it was but a matter of hours before he would be doing me the honour of a call.
He simply had to see me, I figured; that was all there was to it: for with Bell and the girl dead (that much seemed certain, both from the newspaper accounts of the affair and from what I had been able to pick up in the few minutes I had been ashore during the stop of my southbound packet at Townsville) I was the only living person who knew he was not the hero of the astonishing Cora Andrews affair, the audacious daring and almost sublime courage characterizing which had touched the imagination of the whole world; that, far from having volunteered to navigate a shipload of plague-stricken blacks through some hundreds of miles of the worst reef-beset—and likewise the most ill-charted—waters of the Seven Seas on the off chance of saving the lives of perhaps one in ten of them, he had been brought off and forced to mount the gangway of that ill-fated schooner at the point of a knife in the hands of a slender slip of a Kanaka girl.
To be sure, two or three of the blacks who were hanging over the rail at the end of that accursed afternoon may have been among the survivors (for it could have been only the strongest of them that had been able to fight their way up to the air when Bell chopped open the hatches they had been battened under ever since the Cora's officers had succumbed who knows how many hours before); but, even so, their rolling, bloodshot eyes could have fixed on nothing to have led them to believe that the greasy shawl of Chinese embroidery the girl appeared to have thrown affectionately over the shoulder of the belated passenger in the leaking outrigger concealed the diminutive Malay kris whose point she was pressing into the fleshy part of his neck above the jugular.