Swirls of phosphorescence leaped away from the driving ash blades, to trail like ropes of pearl in the wake. On the low-lying beach to which they raced, slender palm trees, silver lances in the blazing sun, stabbed upward through the heat mirage that ran like white fire. The thatched roofs of the native village sprawled in untidy array before the blurred eyes of the man in blue serge.
The next stage by which Stanley Graydon, ex-captain of marines, severed his ties with the service was a schooner that warped alongside a wharf at Santander, capital of the Republic of Santander, three days later. To the beauty of those sea leagues and to the bizarre life on the schooner he was blind. His thoughts were elsewhere.
One picture, that of the unforgettable night in the wardroom of the U. S. S. Franklin, flagship of the Special Service Squadron, haunted him like a nightmare. There was Dixon, squadron intelligence officer, face white as the cloth on the poker table, voice shaking with cold passion, denouncing him as a card sharp. He had dashed the undealt pack full into Dixon’s face. Only the restraining arms of his shipmates had kept him from driving his fist full into that sneering countenance. Then, like the ever-changing picture on a screen, Dixon coolly searched through the scattered cards until he had separated an even dozen.
Held against the light, while their breathless shipmates crowded closer, Dixon pointed out the tiny pin-prick points in their upper corner. A swift manipulation. Five of the marked cards lay face up on the table. The ace-high full on which Graydon had won the last pot. A sharp, curt order by Dixon. The surgeon returning from his cabin with a pack of cards—a pack that was an exact duplicate in pattern and color to the marked pack. The deft fingers of Dixon weaving through them, now and then holding one to the light. In the corner the tiny telltale points.
That same night—the vision followed swiftly—a corporal of marines, one of his own crack detachment, pacing slowly before the closed door of his cabin. The morning, with the admiral’s orderly, one of that gallant platoon he had led into the Bois de Belleau, at his door.
“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and he would like to see the captain in his cabin.”
The picture came clear. Kelly’s gloved hand falling away smartly from the visor of his cap. The strained face relaxed, and the haunted look in Stanley Graydon’s face softened. He would never forget Kelly, blessed old leatherneck, with his hand outstretched, and his husky voice.
“It’s a damn, dirty shame, captain. We’re with you, every marine in the outfit. You’ll come clean out of this barrage.”
The measured toll of the schooner’s bell sounded midnight. Stanley Graydon, leaning over the rail, hands gripping the shrouds, went on with the reconstruction of his hell.
For a full hour they had talked it over, and every word of the white-haired admiral had burned into his memory. His ten years of clean service. His brilliant record overseas. His taut performance of duty in the squadron. His heavy poker losses for two straight months, and then his phenomenal change of luck. At its end, the admiral had delivered his edict.