VII

I was awakened next morning by a sensation as of mighty blows being struck against the yacht’s hull, shaking it from stem to stem. My nostrils caught the tang of cold sea air, while gusts of fog-laden wind swept whistling past the open port-hole.

I dressed, went on deck, and swiftly retreated to shelter. The Wanderer was out at sea and boring her twelve-knot way through the smoke and welter of a raw Spring gale from the north.

The entire aspect of the yacht, of its personnel, and of the expedition seemed to have changed overnight. Captain Brack was upon the bridge. His neat, gold-braided uniform had vanished and he wore a rough sheepskin jacket and oilskin trousers. A shaggy cap was pulled down to his eyes and he chewed and spat tobacco.

In the gray light of a raw day, shuddering and washed by spray, the Wanderer had become a grim, serviceable sea-conqueror rather than the magnificent pleasure-boat she had seemed yesterday, and two seamen, roughly clad and dripping, were putting extra lashings on a life-boat forward.

I went down to breakfast with new impressions of the grim potentialities of this expedition.

I had breakfast alone. Chanler was still in his stateroom and the officers all had breakfasted long before. While I was eating, Freddy Pierce popped his head in.

“Oh, hello; it’s you, is it,” he greeted. “I was looking for the boss; another message.”

“Mr. Chanler is in his stateroom,” I said.

“He sent another message to this Jane—to Miss Baldwin, last night,” said Pierce.

I continued to eat.

“This is a reply to it that I’ve got here.”

“Pierce,” said I, looking up, “you will find Mr. Chanler in his stateroom.”

“Right!” said he. Saying which the messenger boy turned and ran. “Oh, Simmons! Come here. Message for the boss.”

Simmons, who was passing, paused and bestowed on Freddy his most freezing look of disapproval.

“Mr. Chanler is not to be disturbed,” said he, and made to pass on.

“Not so, old Frozen Face,” said Freddy, catching him by the arm. “You don’t pass me by with a haughty look this time. This is the reply to the message the boss sent last night. He wants it while it’s hot off the griddle. Get busy.”

Simmons seemed about to choke.

“Mr. Chanler is not to be disturbed,” he repeated with emphasis.

Freddy turned toward Chanler’s door.

“Will you take it in—or shall I?” he asked.

“But you can’t—it is forbidden!” cried Simmons.

Freddy knocked loudly on the owner’s door.

“The reply to your message from last night, Mr. Chanler,” he called. “It just came.”

An instant later he opened the door, to Simmons’s horror, and entered. When he came out he bore another message and went straight up to the wireless house to send it.

Soon after this Captain Brack came to Chanler’s stateroom, knocked and entered. He remained within for some time. When he emerged his look was dark and scowling, and he hurried straight to the bridge. A moment later the Wanderer’s twelve-knot rush began to diminish, and presently we were moving along at a speed that seemed barely sufficient to keep our headway against the sea.

Not long after this came the clash between Brack and Garvin.

I was starting on my morning constitutional when I came upon the pair facing one another on the fore-deck. Chanler was looking on from the bridge. Garvin was an unpleasant-looking brute to behold. His face was swollen and he had evidently slept in his clothes. He was standing lowering ferociously at Brack, who stood leaning against the chart-house, his arms folded.

“Sa-a-ay, sa-a-ay guy; what kind uv a game d’yah think yah’re running? Eh?” the fighter was snarling. “What d’yah think yah’re putting over on me? Hah? D’yah know who yah got hold of? I’m Bill Garvin.”

“That is how I have put you down—as one of the crew,” said Brack. He placed himself more firmly against the wall of the wheel-house.

“Put—put me down?” cried Garvin incredulously. “Me—one of your crew? Guess again, bo, guess again.”

“I never guess,” retorted Brack and there was just a warning hint of coldness in his tones.

“Wa-ll, git next tuh yerself den, bo, an’ quit dat crew talk wid me. When do we git back tuh Seattle?”

“Perhaps never—for you—unless you soon say ‘sir’ when you speak to me.”

“Hah?”

“‘Sir!’” bellowed Brack, and even the sodden plug-ugly blinked in alarm at the menace in his tones. But only for a moment. He was a true fighting brute, Garvin; his courage only swelled at a challenge.

“Step out here an’ put up yer mitts, Bo,” he snapped. “I’m Bill Garvin; who the —— are you?”

From the bridge came Chanler’s cynical cackle.

“He wants an introduction, cappy,” he chuckled. “Come, come; let’s have your come-back.”

Brack smiled in his old suave manner as he looked up at Chanler, but as he turned away the smile changed to a black scowl. He looked steadily at Garvin for several seconds, and it grew very quiet.

Garvin started a little in surprise and fright, as if suddenly he had seen something in Brack’s face which he had not expected to find there. He was a stubborn fighting brute, however, and instinct told him to charge when in fear. He leaped at Brack, his fists held taut; and an instant later he was on his back on the deck, screaming in agony, his hands covering his scalded face.

Then for the first time I saw the hose-nozzle that the captain had concealed beneath his folded arms. He had been standing so that his broad back entirely concealed the hose, running from a fire-plug in the wall. So the fighter had rushed, open-eyed, open-mouthed, against a two-inch stream of hot water which swept him off his feet and left him groveling and screaming on the deck.

“Ha!” said George Chanler. “Sharp repartee that, cappy—though a bit rough.”

Brack found Garvin’s hands, neck, head with the water, and suddenly turned it off.

“Don’t!” cried Garvin. “For Gawd’s sake, don’t.”

“Sir,” said Brack.

“You go to ——!”

The water found him again.

“Sir.”

“Sir,” whimpered Garvin. “Oh, Gawd! You’ve killed me!”

“Sir.”

Brack tossed the hose aside and wiped his hands.

“Take him below,” he directed a couple of seamen. “Tell Dr. Olson to care for him. I have too much need for Garvin to have him lose his sight.”

He turned abruptly toward Chanler on the bridge.

“The wind is rising, sir,” he said. “At five knots we will barely crawl.”

“Yes?” said Chanler, yawning. “Well, crawling is exactly my mood today.”

“We’ll lose precious days up north if we continue at this speed.”

Chanler smiled the shrewd smile of a man who has a joke all to himself.

“No, cappy; that’s once you’re wrong. It’s just the other way round: I’d lose precious days if we didn’t continue at this speed, as you’ll see when the time comes.”

The captain glared after him as Chanler leisurely went aft to his stateroom. The glare turned for an instant to a smile, of a sort that Chanler would have been troubled to understand had it been seen. Then Brack stamped forward and stood with folded arms, looking ahead over the gray, tossing sea, his face raging with impatience over the slowness of the yacht’s progress.